Of the three witnesses to the murder of Alexander Cross – all college chums of the deceased – only one lived in the New York area. Gregory Caufield, Jr., was now a young associate at daddy's law firm of Stillen, Caufield, and Weston, a high-powered, high-profile firm with offices in several states and foreign countries.

Myron dialed, asked for Gregory Caufield, Jr., and was put on hold. A woman came on the line several seconds later and said, "I'll put you straight through to Mr. Caufield."

A click. One ring. Then an enthusiastic voice said, "Well, hi!"

Well, hi?

"Is this Gregory Caufield?"

"Sure is. What can I do for you today?"

"My name is Myron Bolitar."

"Uh-huh."

"And I'd like to make an appointment to see you."

"Sure. When?"

"As soon as possible."

"How about half an hour from now? Will that be okay?"

"That'll be fine, thank you."

"Super, Myron. Looking forward to it."

Click. Super?

Fifteen minutes later Myron was on his way. He walked up Park Avenue past the mosque steps where Myron and Win liked to lunch on summer days. Prime woman-watching perch. New York has the most beautiful women in the world, bar none. They wear business attire and sneakers and sunglasses. They walk with cool purpose, with no time to waste. Amazingly, none of the beautiful women checked Myron out. Probably just being discreet Probably ogling him like crazy from behind those sunglasses.

Myron cut west to Madison Avenue. He passed a couple of electronics stores with the same GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs they'd had up for at least a year. The sign was always the same – white sign, black letters. A blind man held out a cup. Didn't even give out pencils anymore. His seeing-eye dog looked dead. Two cops were laughing on the corner. They were eating croissants. Not doughnuts. Another cliché blown to hell.

There was a security guard by the elevator in the lobby.

"Yes?"

"Myron Bolitar to see Gregory Caufield."

"Oh yes, Mr. Bolitar. Twenty-second floor." Didn't call up. Didn't check his list. Hmm.

When the elevator opened, a pleasant-faced woman was standing there. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bolitar. If you'd please follow me."

Down a long corridor with an office-pink carpet, white walls, McKnight framed posters. No typewriters clicked, but Myron heard the whir of a laser printer. Someone was dialing a number on a speakerphone. A fax machine screeched its call to another fax machine. When they turned the corner, a second, equally pleasant-faced, woman approached. Plastic smiles all around.

"Hello, Mr. Bolitar," the second woman said. "Nice to see you today."

"Nice to see you too." Every line a lady-slayer.

The first woman handed him over to the second. Tag-team style. "Mr. Caufield is waiting for you in conference room C," the second woman said, her voice low, as if conference room C were a clandestine chamber in the bowels of the Pentagon.

She led him to a door very much like any other except it had a big bronze C on it. In a matter of seconds, Myron managed to deduce that the room was conference room C. The Adventures of Sherlock Bolitar. A man opened the door from the inside. He was young with a thick head of Stephanopoulos-like hair. He pumped Myron's hand enthusiastically. "Hi, Myron."

"Hi, Gregory." Like they actually knew each other.

"Please come in. There's someone here I'd like you to meet."

Myron stepped fully into the room. Big walnut table with dark leather chairs, the expensive kind, the kind with those little gold buttons on them. Oil portraits of stern-faced men on the walls. The room was empty, except for one man down the other end of the table. Though they had never met, Myron recognized the man immediately. He should have been surprised, but he wasn't.

Senator Bradley Cross.

Gregory did not bother with introductions. In fact he didn't bother staying. He slipped out the door, closing it behind him. The senator stood. His were a far cry from the classic patrician good looks one usually associates with political families. They say people look like their pets; in that case Senator Bradley Cross owned a basset hound. His features were long and malleable. His finely tailored suit did nothing to disguise his exaggerated pear build; on a woman, his hips would be called child-bearing. His hair was wispy gray strands that seemed to be suffering from static cling. He wore thick glasses and an off-center smile. Still, it was an endearing smile – indeed, an endearing, trustworthy face. The kind of face you'd vote for.

Senator Cross slowly put out his hand. "I'm sorry for the dramatics," he said, "but I thought we should meet."

They shook hands.

"Please have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something?"

"No, thank you," Myron said.

They sat facing each other. Myron waited. The senator seemed unsure how to begin. He coughed into his fists several times. Each cough made his jowls flap a bit.

"Do you know why I wanted to see you?" he asked.

"No," Myron said.

"I understand you've been asking a lot of questions about my son. More specifically, about his murder."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Around. Here and there. I am not without my sources." He tilted his head the way a basset hound does when he hears a strange sound. "I'd like to know why."

"Valerie Simpson was going to be a client of mine," Myron said.

"So I've been told."

"I'm looking into her murder."

"And you believe there might be a connection between Valerie's murder and Alexander's?"

Myron shrugged.

"My son was killed by a random street thug six years ago near Philadelphia. Valerie was killed almost gang-land style at the U.S. Open in New York. What possible connection could there be?"

"Maybe none."

Cross leaned back, fiddled his thumbs. "I want to be up-front with you, Myron. I've looked into your background a bit. I know about your past work. Not the details, of course, but your reputation. I'm not trying to apply any influence here. It's not my style. I've never been comfortable at playing the tough guy." He smiled again. His eyes were wet now and there was a discernible quake in his voice. "I'm talking to you now not as a United States senator but as a grieving father. A grieving father who just wants to let his son rest in peace. I'm asking you to please stop what you're doing."

The pain in the man's voice was raw. Myron had not expected this. "I'm not sure I can, Senator."

The senator rubbed his entire face vigorously, using both hands. "You see two young people…" he began tiredly. "You see two young people with the whole world in front of them. Practically engaged to one another. And what happens to them? They're murdered in two separate incidents six years apart. The cruel coincidence is too much to fathom. You wonder about that, don't you, Myron?"

Myron nodded.

"So you begin to scrutinize their deaths. You look for something that might explain such a bizarre double tragedy. And in your search you find inconsistencies. You see pieces that just don't add up."

"Yes."

"And those inconsistencies lead you to believe that there is a connection between Alexander's murder and Valerie's."

"Maybe."

Cross glanced up at the ceiling and rested his index finger on his lip. "Will you take my word that those inconsistencies have nothing to do with Valerie Simpson?"

"No," Myron said. "I can't."

Senator Cross nodded, more to himself than Myron. "I didn't suspect you would," he said. "You don't have children, do you, Myron?"

"No."

"It doesn't matter. Even people who have children don't understand. They can't. What happened… it's not just the pain. The death is all-consuming. It never lets you go, never gives you a chance to catch your breath. My wife still has to be medicated almost daily. It's like someone scooped out everything inside of her and left behind only a pitiful shell. You can't imagine what it's like to see her like that."